


Alphabet Challenge

by Acherubis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Domestic Violence, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acherubis/pseuds/Acherubis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one shots for a challenge I am writing for the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers Forum on Facebook revolving around my headcanon Nathaniel's past, present and future. WIP</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Archery

Harvestmere, 9:34 Dragon

The day is warm and sunny. A rarity this time of year. There is only the slightest breeze and the air smells of autumn foliage and wet earth. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he turns his face up to the sun, enjoying the reprieve from the storms that have haunted the Keep for the last three weeks.  
Almost everyone is outside today. He can hear cat-calls and shouts and laughter in the distance and the sound of metal on metal. The soldiers are eager to get some fresh air and exhaust their overflowing energies in the practice field, wrestling, dueling, challenging each other. He has pondered joining them and get some practice with his daggers as well but the thought of finding a nice, quiet clearing for his archery was so much more appealing.  
He likes the silence of the woods, the serenity you could find there if you opened your heart and mind to the sounds and smells and sights of the surrounding trees and animals. It is the perfect place to hone his skills with the bow. Archery, for him, is the best way to relax, almost like meditation and after being locked up behind solid walls for so long with people getting increasingly restless and aggravated, it is just what he needs now.  
His fingers lovingly run along the smooth, polished wood of his bow. He knows every dent, every scratch, every carving by heart. Holding that bow alone makes him feel calmer. He can sit and tend to it for hours, waxing, oiling, polishing and sometimes he does just that when there are too many things on his mind. The familiar motions help him think and just as the art itself, it has a calming and comforting effect on him.  
Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he takes another deep breath, assumes his position. rolls his neck and shoulders and then nocks the slender projectile, aiming at a knothole some six yards away. He takes his time, forcing his breathing to slow, his mind to let go of all bothering and unimportant thought and releases the arrow with a low whistle.  
Nock… aim… fire…  
It is the most satisfying feeling to hear the swoosh of the arrow and hear it sink into your target with a thud.  
Nock… aim… fire…  
The sounds in the back fade and fall silent as he solely concentrates on the motions.  
Archery is precision. Archery is perfection. If you don't strive for perfection, you will probably be better off with the club-wielders in the next field!  
Nock… aim… fire…  
His mentor never got tired of pointing that out. It is what appealed to him in the first place. Precision. Perfection. Only when one shot is like the other, you have truly mastered the art. It is all about focus, accuracy, patience.  
Nock… aim… fire…  
The fourth arrow hits the knothole close to the previous three. You wouldn't even fit a sheet of paper between them but it is still not perfect. The perfect shot. That's what he's aiming for but he knows that he still has a lot of work to do before he might even get close to it. But that is the allure of it, right? What is there left to achieve once you have reached the ultimate goal?  
Strive for perfection.  
He does and in doing so, maybe he has already mastered it.


	2. B is for Brother

Harvestmere, 9:37 Dragon

The ring in his palm feels heavy, like a burden, as he looks at it, twists it around in his hand and tries to understand. It is the Howe signet ring, the last thing that remains of his brother. Following an impulse, he has slipped it off Thomas' bloodied hand when it was all over. He still doesn't know why he did it, why it was important, just that he had to.  
His brother turned out to be a traitor just like their father and Nate has seen to it that he got his punishment, knowing that he deserved it. Once more his family name is sullied with blood and betrayal and he should have learned to hate that name and those who bore it. But as much as that is true for his father, he cannot bring himself to hate his baby-brother.  
They had been too close in their youth for that, despite the five years they were apart. He always felt responsible for his younger brother who had never been quite like other children. Thomas had been a quiet and shy boy. Until the age of four, Nate can't recall him speaking a single word and whenever he would speak after that, he always did so in hushed tones and with his head down so that you had to strain your ears to understand him.  
He also was sick often and had to spend a lot of time in bed or inside the house with only his books and toys and his own imagination to keep him company. Finding friends had never been an easy thing for the Howe children in the first place. For one, because their father did not approve of them mingling with commoners and two, because people knew that and kept their distance. But for Thomas, it had been especially hard. His shyness and weak constitution did not allow him to play mage and templar with the other kids or go for a ride or a swim in the lake. All he really ever had were his brother and sister and he tended to follow Nate around like a lost puppy whenever he was healthy enough to do so.  
On those rare occasions, he always tried to make sure that Thomas had a good time. Seeing a smile on his brother's always pale and too earnest face was worth it every time. Tom was less shy around him, less hesitant, knowing that Nate would watch out for him. When they were together, his younger brother almost behaved like a normal child.  
It is this memory he still holds onto to this day. The knowledge that Thomas has tortured and murdered more than a dozen people is not able to change the love he still feels for his brother. It only makes him feel guilty. As if it is fault. As if he could have done something to prevent it.  
Nate knows of course that these thoughts are pointless and irrational. He is not responsible for Thomas' actions and never was but the bitter taste of regret and failure remains because he still feels that it was his job to protect his brother and that he did not live up to that task.  
Where did it all go so horribly wrong? When did his brother's love turn into hate? Had it always been like this?  
He will never know. Thomas is dead and with him the answers he is seeking. What remains is a feeling of guilt and regret, of grief and emptiness and the everlasting question about the why.  
The ring still lies there in his hand and after staring at it a while longer, Nate slips it over his finger. There is no bringing back the past, no undoing the things that have been done. What he can do, though, is remembering, holding onto all those good memories and he will. For Thomas. For the boy he was before. He owes him that much after all.


	3. C is for Castigation

August, 9:26 Dragon

The humid air stinks of sweat and blood and excrement and it is hot.   
So hot…  
He can't breathe, can't move. His body hurts everywhere, his lungs burn, breath coming in shallow, short gasps. He slips in and out of conscience, thoughts tangled, slow, numb. All he can think of is the heat, this incredible heat.  
So hot…  
Something crawls over his naked skin. A sharp pain. He winces but he doesn't move. He doesn't have the strength or the space to move. His shoulders scrape against the rough wooden planks to both sides of his body, leaving the skin there raw and itching.  
Time crawls. Every second a minute, every minute an hour and every hour a lifetime. How long since they put him in the box now? Hours? Days? He can't tell because everything is dark.   
Dark and hot.   
Maker, it's so hot…  
Every now and then, he hears voices. They are mocking, insulting, cruel. But he knows by now that, when he hears the voices, it means he's given some water. It's just a small trickle from above, barely enough to moisten his cracked lips and dry throat but it keeps him from dying of thirst. It also makes the heat ever more unbearable. The coolness on his face and neck only lasts a moment and makes the rest of him feel as if he's on fire.  
Please, make it stop… so hot…  
When the voices sound again, though, there's no water, just the voices and a scratching sound like nails on wood. And then … light… air… pain…  
The sudden brightness hurts his eyes, the so much cooler air makes him shiver and leaves an unpleasant aching on his overheated, sweat-soaked skin. He cries out in agony when insensitive hands grab him under the arms and drag him upwards. Joints crack, stiff muscles scream in anguish as they are relentlessly forced to move after an eternity of immobility.   
He crashes to the ground none too gently, his legs unable to support his weight. A flood of cold water washes over him, leaving him gasping and coughing and shaking in the dirt and all the time there are those voices, taunting, howling, laughing.   
He tries to scramble to his knees but to no avail. A boot catches him in the ribs, sends a whole new kind of heat through his weak, exhausted body and has him curl up into a ball.   
A new voice bellows orders but he doesn't understand what it says. He waits for more laughter, more kicks, more pain but none of it comes. Instead a blanket is wrapped around his trembling form and careful hands stroke his muddy, sweaty hair from his face.   
"Relax, Howe," that new voice grumbles somewhere beside him. "It's over. You've made it. Didn't think you would, stubborn bastard."  
It is the last thing he hears before the darkness returns but it returns without the heat and that is enough for him to embrace it.


	4. D is for Duty

Cloudreach, 9:29 Dragon

They have been searching the woods for days. Sixteen men under his command, all bound to find one man, one traitor. The Bann is not a merciful man and he is adamant in his treatment of those who have betrayed him.   
The absconder they are looking for is his friend. He has deserted some days ago and Nate's orders are clear: find him, execute him, bring his head back as proof.   
He prays that William has escaped for good, that he had the good sense to board a ship and leave this makerforsaken place as long as he had the chance. He doesn't want to kill a friend but he knows he will have to if push comes to shove. As much as he loathes the Bann, he is bound to answer to him. He has sworn to serve him until the bastard releases him from his duty and until then, he has no choice but to carry out his orders even if that means to kill a deserter who happens to be his friend.  
Nate had tried to talk William out of his plan. There had been countless nights he spent sitting with the young man, trying to comfort him, to bolster his self-confidence and take away his fears. Just like him, the boy had been sent here to squire for a few years but it had been obvious from the start that he did not belong with the guardsmen. The rough treatment, oftentimes harsh insults and only barely tolerable accommodations were wearing him down and tearing at his nerves. William would have been better off with a job at the great estate but the Bann of course did not care for those pesky details.   
He couldn't say that it surprised him when a fellow guardsman came into the barracks one morning and reported that Will was not in his bunk and also nowhere else on the grounds. In the end, all persuasion had been for naught.   
"Lieutenant," it hisses beside him and his comrade gestures down the slope they are standing on to the bank of the river and his heart sinks. His hands clench by his sides but he keeps his expression blank. He cannot afford to show any feelings in front of these men.   
With a nod, he gives the sign to surround the lone figure by the water. It takes less than three minutes for them to catch William and wrestle him down. He doesn't struggle very hard and when Nate looks the boy in the eye, he can see that he did not have much hope to escape in the first place. He grinds his teeth.   
Stupid boy! Why didn't you listen?   
His stomach twists into knots with the hopelessness and resignation in the other man's gaze. Bile rises in his throat. Will knows what's going to happen next.  
"Make it quick," Nate hears him whisper when he kneels down beside him. For a moment, he just remains there, trying to calm his trembling hands and blinking away the moisture in his eyes. He can feel the soldiers' eyes on him. They are watching, waiting for him to fulfill his duty.   
He doesn't want to do this. It is murder. Cold-blooded, useless, cruel murder. But he will do it anyway. If he doesn't do it, someone else will and if he learned anything in those four years he spent in the Marches, it is that duty always comes first and that failure is punished hard, fast and relentlessly. It doesn't mean that he won't do it with at least a minimum of dignity for Will, though.  
"Let him stand," he calmly tells the soldier holding Will down. The order makes the man frown.  
"But, ser…"  
"I said let him stand!" Nate bellows sharply. His nerves lie blank and he neither has the patience nor the desire to explain his actions and he doesn't need to, damn it! The expression in his eyes is enough for the other man to release his friend and stand back.  
Slowly, Will rises from the wet ground and just as slowly, Nate steps behind him. He can see the pulse in the boy's neck thumping heavily, smells the stench of fear on his skin and everything inside him screams to stop right here.   
"I'm sorry," he whispers into his friend's ear as he wraps his arm around his neck and places his hand on his head. "Forgive me."  
He takes a deep breath… closes his eyes… exhales... and with a swift motion snaps the boy's neck. The sound is sickening and almost turns his stomach but he clenches his teeth and slowly, gently lowers the body back onto the ground.   
Well done, son.   
He can almost hear his father's voice in his head, see him nodding his approval. It is exactly what he wants. To make his father proud by fulfilling his duty the best way he possibly can.  
Why is it then that all he feels is shame?


	5. E is for Equilibrium

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to read "G is for Grief" before this one. Those two chapters are related and I should have chosen a different place for this story but I am bound to the letters here, so sorry for the inconvenience. Hope you enjoy anyways.

Draconis, 9:37 Dragon

The sun is setting in the west surrounded by a halo of blues and violets, oranges and yellows, a blood-red ball against the rapidly darkening sky. There's a chill in the air, clouds of mist rise from the ground and swirl around his feet like milk-white ghosts as he approaches the run-down shed at the outskirts of Amaranthine like so many times before. He comes here every time he is in the city and always at sunset.   
The once neatly kept house is a ruin now. No one wanted to live there anymore after the murder. The last supporting beams are creaking in the cold air of the early spring and every now and then there's a clattering sound when another piece of wood or plaster falls to the ground. Rats are scurrying about in the darkness, hiding from the light of the small lantern he has brought along. It is dangerous to go into that ruin. It can all fall apart at any given moment but he doesn't care. He knows where to step, could find his way blindfolded by now.  
His steps lead him to the overgrown and neglected backyard, everywhere littered with rubble and rotting wood. Everywhere but for that small space in the middle of it where the grass is thoroughly cut, the weeds painstakingly removed, that small space where a lone rosebush is watching over the remnants of a once cozy, little home.   
He kneels down and places the lantern next to it, inspecting the leaves and thorny stems for frostbite and malnutrition and a small smile curves his lips when he finds that the bush he planted so many years ago is still strong and healthy.   
"There you go," he murmurs softly, his fingers gently loosening up the hard, frosty earth around the plant. "Nothing that will shake you so easily, huh?"  
With a sigh, he sits back on his haunches, the smile fading from his lips as he stares at the rosebush. Usually when he comes here, it is for comfort. This place holds a lot of unsettling memories but for some reason, it also always helped him calm his troubled thoughts and feelings. Maybe because in this place he feels closest to her; to the woman he once loved and who was so brutally slaughtered in this very spot. But there is no comfort to be found tonight.  
Tonight he has come to say goodbye.   
"I'm going to get married," he tells her quietly. Sometimes when he talks to her like this, he can almost hear her pearly laugh, the soft lilt in her voice. As if she would answer if he only talked long enough. "She's special, you know?"  
He feels like he needs to explain it to her, as ridiculous as it might be, the feelings he has for his soon-to-be wife. There is no doubt, neither in his heart nor mind, that he wants to marry her but there is a part of him that feels like he's betraying Brynna, his first love, the part that still desperately clings to a past he cannot bring back and that never really let go.  
As he sits and talks, he suddenly feels the presence of someone else in his back but he doesn't turn around, not even when a gentle hand comes to rest on his shoulder. He knows who it is. Her scent of almond and vanilla betrayed her long before he heard the rustling of her cape and the soft crunching sound of her feet in the dirt. It comes as a surprise that she followed him, something she never did before but he doesn't mind her being here. It actually feels right.   
They remain like that in silence for a long while, her standing beside him with her hand on his shoulder and him crouching on the ground, each of them paying their respect in their own way.   
Finally, she kneels down beside him and reaches out, placing a small wreath of the season's first flowers at the foot of the rosebush and he feels his throat growing tight with that unexpected, heartfelt and honest gesture. She shouldn't be here, shouldn't lay flowers down by his dead lover's memorial but she is and she does and it means the world.   
A pained, dry sob leaves his mouth despite his desperate effort to hold it back, to blink away the tears that suddenly burn in his eyes and to lock the grief back into that secure place in his heart where it had dwelled for almost twelve years. It won't be locked away again, though, and when her gentle hand strokes at his cheek, at the lone tear that has escaped his eyes, his carefully erected walls crumble to dust and ashes.   
His hands claw into her cloak when she wordlessly pulls him into a tight hug and allows him to grieve, really grieve, for the first time. He buries his head in her neck as violent, anguished, furious cries wrack his body and she lets him. Because she understands. Because she knows better than anyone, better than even he himself, how much he needs this and he holds on to that, to her understanding, her unobtrusive comfort, the strength she willingly offers to him to draw upon.  
And with her, it's alright. With her he doesn't feel ashamed of his tears. He can let go of this old pain without being judged or deemed weak. She makes him feel whole again, liberated, as if he has found his center, an inner peace he did not even know he was missing and it feels good, so very good.   
When his sobs have finally quieted and his thoughts begin running in more orderly lanes again, he lifts his head from her shoulder and cups her cheeks that are stained with tears as well. For a long, long moment he just looks at her, drinks in all the feelings he sees in those grey-blue orbs before he leans in and kisses her, kisses her like he has never kissed her before and it doesn't feel like betrayal anymore. It just feels… right and it might only be his imagination but he can almost hear that pearly laugh and that lilting voice blessing them.   
"Come on, let's go home," he whispers against his lovers lips and when they leave the backyard and the once cozy, little house hand in hand, he doesn't look back because finally, after all these years, he has found peace.


	6. F is for Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains domestic violence and the denunciation of a (fictional) religious belief system. If you are easily offended by one of the two, please stop reading now. Thank you.

August, 9:10 Dragon

He is bored. He is always bored during mass but today especially so because it drags on and on and on for much longer than he is used to. Mother says that's because it is a special mass, that they are to remember Andraste and her sacrifice today. Father says it is rubbish but that they have to be good little Andrastians anyway and be an example for all those common folk morons who actually believe in the fairy tales the chantry tells them. It would raise some suspicious eyebrows if the Arl's family was missing the services and especially the services held on the holidays.  
He doesn't know which explanation is the right one but he knows that he likes his mother's more. Sometimes she tells him stories about Andraste and Maferath and the Maker and they sound like big adventures and he likes that.   
That does not mean he likes mass more because of the stories, though. It is still boring, with the Revered Mother ranting in her pulpit in that monotonous, fretful voice, talking nineteen to a dozen, but for his mother's sake, he tries to pay attention and sometimes he even succeeds. Maybe also because he knows that if he lets his boredom show, his father's riding crop will be waiting for him as soon as they get back home, teaching him a lesson or two about why not paying attention at mass does not do for the son of an Arl.   
He can still vividly remember the last time he dared to dangle his feet under the bench and ask his mother why the chapel always smelled so strange. He does not feel like repeating that experience any time soon and so he pays attention. For his mother's sake and because of the riding crop.  
The Revered Mother is talking about Andraste's faith and how it helped her overcome even the most dreadful of odds. That believing in the Maker the way Andraste did will keep you from all harm and that only those with a strong belief will finally see the Maker's shining light and be united with their loved ones when their time has come.   
When mass finally is over, he asks his mother if that is why she insists he and his siblings pray every evening, because she does not want them to get hurt and his mother smiles and nods. He can see that she wants to say something but his father's raised eyebrow and the expression in his hard eyes make her look away and remain silent and he doesn't ask any more questions. It is not smart to ask questions when father looks at you like that.  
He thinks about the matter, though, and he likes the thought that the Maker is watching over him. He imagines Him as a kind old man with a big looking-glass that shows Him all the many people in Thedas and that, when there's something not right, He reaches down with a big, long pair of pincers and punishes all the bad people. It is a comforting thought and he is determined to pray extra hard from now on so that the Maker and his mother can be proud of him.   
His resolve last exactly until they arrive at the Keep. They have barely exited the carriage when his father grabs his mother's arm none too gently and almost drags her up the stairs and into their private quarters. He knows what that means. It means mother has done something wrong. It happens sometimes and when it does, he can hear his father yelling at her even from his room at the other end of the hall.   
He follows his parents inside quickly and quietly and when the door has closed behind them, he runs the rest of the way to his room as fast as he can. His trembling hand has barely touched the door handle when he already hears his mother crying out and his father's angry yelling.   
He doesn't want to hear it. He wants to crawl into his bed and pull the pillows over his head until it is over but for some reason, he lets go of the handle and slowly, carefully crosses the distance between his and his parents' room instead. Their door is not completely closed, he can see a slim band of light illuminating the red velvet carpet in the hallway.   
For a moment he is frozen to the spot, paralyzed by the shouts he can hear coming from inside, followed by the sharp, distinct sound of a hand connecting with bare flesh. It frightens him but despite his fear he inches closer, crouches low and peeks through the crack of the not-quite-closed door.   
His mother is huddled in the farthest corner of the room, right in his line of sight and his father stands over her, his hand repeatedly slapping her in the face and his hard travel boot connecting with her ribs and stomach.   
"… dare talking to him about this bullshit ever again, bitch!" he hears him yelling. "The boy is too soft already!"  
He flinches when another slap, another kick hits his mother's huddled form and he feels tears burning in his eyes. He wants to help her but he knows he can't. It will only bring his father's wrath down on him instead and so he slowly retreats from the door before they notice him eavesdropping.   
And that is when he hears his mother pray.   
My Maker, know my heart   
Take from me a life of sorrow   
Lift me from a world of pain   
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.   
He hears her broken pleas and he finds himself folding his hands and pray with her. Maybe her prayers are not strong enough and the Maker does not hear her among all the other people who are talking to Him. Maybe if he helps her, those great pincers will come down from above and make his father stop beating her.   
He concentrates very hard and prays with more honesty then ever before but nothing happens. Neither is the ceiling opening up with the Maker's wrath, nor are there any great pincers coming down. He can still hear his mother's cries and the slaps that rain down on her like mad and that is when he knows that his father is right.   
It is rubbish. All of it. If those with faith were kept from harm as his mother has told him, why isn't she? She is the most faithful person he has ever known but that doesn't safe her from his father's anger now. If there really was a Maker He would do something, right?  
His hands fall down by his sides, disappointed, angry tears streaming down his face as he gets up from the red velvet carpet and walks back to his room, all the way accompanied by his mother's desperate prayers.   
Quietly, he closes the door behind him and quietly, he crawls into his bed and pulls the pillows over his head. He doesn't pray before lights out. He doesn't pray ever again.


	7. G is for Grief

Justinian, 9:25 Dragon

It is raining heavily. There's a summer storm going on. Flashes of lightning crack the sky and the thunder drowns out every other sound. He is shivering. Not because of the rain pouring down on him as he stands there in that tiny backyard, though, frozen to the spot in shock and disbelief, but from the sight that presents itself to him in all its atrocity. There is so much blood. Blood on her clothes and in her hair. Blood on her skin and in the mud beneath her.   
"Bryn…"  
It is just a whisper, that one syllable almost choking him and he runs to her side, gathering her up in his arms.   
No. No, no, no, NO! This can't be! This can't be true!   
Frantically he searches for a pulse, listens for a heartbeat, an intake of breath. There is nothing, though. No pulse. No breath. No warmth. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that she's dead, has probably been for hours but that doesn't keep him from rubbing at her icy skin and trying to breathe life back into her lungs.  
"Wake up, Bryn… please… please, baby, wake up…"  
He repeats those words, over and over and over again, like a chant, as if they alone can coax her into opening her beautiful eyes, make those blue lips form a smile. His fingers restlessly stroke at red locks and pale cheeks as he cradles her limp body in his arms, a dry, anguished sob escaping his constricting throat.   
Memories flood his tangled thoughts, memories of her gentle hand in his, of her shy smile the first time they met at the Crown & Lion, their first kiss under the fireworks at the fair. Only a day ago, he told her he wanted to talk to his father about his intentions to marry her. Especially that last memory is still so very fresh in his mind, that glint in her eyes, that fervor in her kiss.   
Did that really only happen a few hours ago? It feels like in another lifetime. Right now, with her dead body in his arms and her blood smeared over his hands and face, he cannot imagine that just a few hours ago he has been he happiest man in the world. All that he feels is despair and a grief that threatens to suffocate him.   
For several hours, he just sits there in the blood-soaked mud, rocking back and forth, staring into eternity, with her stiff body in his arms, refusing to let go. The storm has passed by the time he finally lowers her to the ground. The sky is clear again with a bright, red sun sinking in the west. His throat feels tight and his eyes are burning. The despair has been replaced by emptiness and merciful numbness.   
Gently, carefully, he leans down and places a last kiss on Bryn's cold, unmoving lips. Without haste, he rightens her ripped dress and pulls out a handkerchief to wipe the blood and rain from her grey face. His own face is a pale, stony mask when he finally stands and leaves the backyard on stiff legs and without looking back.


End file.
